


Diapers to Potty Training

by Smokemycancer



Series: Being Mandy and Mickey Milkovich [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-17 08:23:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1380742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smokemycancer/pseuds/Smokemycancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hush little babies, don't say a word. Mama can't buy you a mocking bird and daddy ain't got the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aunt Rande

“I think your baby’s sick,” Rande says, mouth stuffed full of eggs. And when Terry ignores her in lieu of his beer and pocket knife, Rande sits down her fork smacks the table. Her plate clings and startles the German Shepherd sleeping near the screen door to the cluttered kitchen. The dog wines, then lowers her head. “You hear me? Mickey’s lethargic,” Rande snarls.

“So?” Terry murmurs, busy cutting up the paper label on his bottle. “Baby’s tired. What the fuck you want me to do about it?”

Rande rolls her eyes. She scoots her plate back and folds her chubby arms on the table. “He ain’t been acting right. That little punk has been loud and ain’t been much for sleeping since we brought him here,” she says, looking over Terry’s worry-aged face. Sighing, she bends her upper half backward and pops her back. “He’s a playful baby, Terry,” she adds, somewhat softer noted, knitting her brow at his lack of attention. Then she says, “And since last night, he’s been laying in there quiet and glassy eyed. Something’s wrong with him.”

“All right, Mother Teresa,” Terry snarks, pursing his lips and finally sitting the bottle down long enough to look at her. He leans back in his chair, legs outstretched wide. Scratches his bare bird chest. “What do you propose I do? Take him to the doctor? On who’s fucking dime?” he laughs and shakes his head. Picks at the egg white stain on his jeans. “Not to mention get protective services on our asses? Nah. He’ll get over it,” he says, waving her off.

Rande looks behind her to the living room. It’s actually kind of clean, although cluttered up with a few bags of garbage, baskets of laundry. The birdcage above Mickey’s crib is empty again. Because it’s hot as ass in the house and Terry’s parakeets always die. Mickey’s, prettiest thing in the room, is still laying on his stomach in Pop Archie’s recliner. Rande put a bunch of her bed sheets and pillows around him and in the floor. That way if he falls, it will be a soft landing.

Rande doesn’t know a lot about babies. Hasn’t spent much time with Terry’s other three boys; they are mostly at Irene’s. Hasn’t even met Terry’s other infant, Mickey’s sister. But Rande. She has been, mostly, the one devoting her time to Mickey’s care since Mama Mim insisted they bring at least one of the twins home. She’s rocked him, fed him, changed him all but once, and has even found herself fond enough to play with him. And Rande knows the baby is acting weird.

Last night she stumbled in, high off a few rocks. She’d pretty much passed out on the couch, giving Leo head. Woke up alone, to the sound of Mickey shaking in his crib.

She’s never seen a seizure, but Rande thinks maybe her nephew had one last night. And he’s acting different today.

Sighing, she turns her attention back on Terry. He’s tossing his now empty bottle into the pile of other bottles and cans over flowing one of the many trash cans Pop Archie has lining the wall. She picks up her fork and stabs her eggs. Takes another bite. “You could just take him to his mom,” she says.

Terry snorts, “Right, Rande. I’ll do that.” Sarcastic.

“Better than letting him get sicker,” she says, as if that’s not obvious.

“What’s a god damn twelve year old going to do for him?” Terry suddenly snaps, standing up and glaring down at his sister.

Rande tenses up, feels heat rush through her and finds herself nose to nose with her pigheaded, bastard, brother. “Maybe you should have thought about that,” she yells, veins in her neck pulsing, “before you stuck it in a kid!” Her face is red in anger, clashing with her pink dress.

“Watch yourself!” Terry bellows. His pupils are blown out. He reeks of their dad’s hooch and cheaply bought beer. Like pot, too. When he’s stoned and drunk, Terry means to be avoided. Just like Pop Archie.

Yet Rande riles him more. Maybe on purpose. “That what you told that girl to stop her going to the cops?” she continues, smiling hatefully, ready for the punch before it even happens.

The blow knocks Rande into her chair and the chair smacks hard against the floor. One of the weak plastic legs breaks during the crash. And Rande, she hits her head on the linoleum pretty hard. Her head bounces just as Terry steps over and kicks her shoulder. As he points down at her, screaming loud enough to wake their passed out parents in the back, master bedroom, spit flying, Rande watches the family dog finally jump up and growl. It goes for Terry’s calf and she can’t stop herself from laughing as he fights the bitch off.

“Yeah, fuck you!” Rande laughs. “Hope that shit scars!”

Terry kicks the dog and she whines, yips, and runs into another room. As Rande gets up, he bends down and assesses the damage of his leg. It’s bleeding pretty bad. Huffing curses and scowling, Terry limps over to the sink and flamingos his leg, rolls the jeans, turns on the water.

Rande eyes him as she goes for the paper towels that have rolled onto the floor. She dabs her busted mouth. “Take your baby to a damn doctor. Don’t be a piece of shit like Pop,” she says into the napkin, wiggling her now loose front tooth.

 


	2. Shaken

Terry stands, oil stained hands gripping his youngest son’s crib railing. He peers down at Mickey. The boy is wearing a fire engine red onesie that Rande stole from the department store. He’s just as pale as Terry. Got hair jet black like his mother. Big eyes like Jennifer, too. But they’re blue like Terry’s. His lips, parted because he’s mouth breathing, are dark like Jennifer’s. Today, Mickey’s eyes are glazed over. And Terry, for the first time since bringing the baby home, picks his son up. He holds the boy a foot out from him, meanwhile supporting the infant’s lolling head. Terry bites down on the toothpick he’s been sucking on since after breakfast. Narrows his eyes to study Mickey’s blank expression. Sighing, Terry pulls the brat closer and cradles him over his shoulder. He looks back down into the now empty crib and spots the vomit. Dried. Foamy white.

He knows Rande’s right about Mickey being sick. Knows he has to do something about it. That or let the boy die. Well he can’t let that happen being as Terry doesn’t want to prove everyone right; that he’s just like his old man and can't take care of what's his. Terry, he’s fucked up so far with Irene and her boys; his other three sons. He wonders if the mistake he’s holding right now can be salvaged.

“Rande!” Terry hollars. Holds his hand around Mickey’s ears as he does so. She harps back from her room, sort of acknowledging him. “You feed him anything different?” he asks.

Opening her bedroom door, Rande sticks her head out and furrows her face at him. He knows she's probably confused at his sudden interest in the baby’s well being. But doesn’t feel a need to explain himself to anyone. “Just that same formula,” she says.

“He get into anything?” Terry presses, pulling an aggravated face at her. His high has worn off and the beer buzz is fading. It’s barely noon. By now, Terry is typically lit and over at his buddys’ garage. When Rande shakes her head and steps into the living room, Terry exhales loudly and turns to fully face her. His eyes sweep over the sofa and coffee table as he does so. From the corner of his eye, Terry spots an almost fresh rubber laying on the floorboards. “The fuck’s that?” he sneers. “You have company last night?”

Rande purses up her face and flips him off. “None of your fucking buisness,” she spits. “Besides, it was just Leo.”

“He mess with my fucking kid?” Terry asks, wondering if Leo was stupid enough to maybe give the baby something bad for him.

“Fuck no!” Rande hisses, offended. “I wouldn’t have let him!”

Terry stares at her face for signs that she’s full of it. He notices she’s painted up with their mom’s makeup. Covering the mark Terry’s fist made on her mouth. He believes her. His sister seems to really like this baby most of the time. Terry can’t picture her letting Leo blow crack smoke in Mickey’s face. Then he wonders something else. “Were you high?” he asks.

For a second, Rande hesitates. She rubs her temples. “Yeah. But I’d have noticed Leo do something,” she says after a short pause. They stare at each other for a few minutes. Rande crosses her arms and asks, “You taking him to the hospital like I said?”

Terry doesn’t answer her. He lays Mickey back in the crib and walks by her. He’s in his room for ten or so minutes. Comes out dressed in his one clean gray and black polo, same stained jeans. He’s slicked his brown, gray hair back. Sucking on a cigarette. He goes back and gets the baby. Leaves the house without a word.

Two hours later, Terry comes in the door empty handed. No one’s home except Archie. The old man is watching a game on the cracked television set. He doesn’t even look up at Terry when the man walks in and goes straight for the cupboard full of weapons. Instead, Archie, naked save for his boxers, sixty-five years old, balding and covered in wrinkled swastikas, puffs on his cigar. He only looks up at his only son when Terry stands deliberately in front of the game. Handgun hanging by his narrow hip, face hard.

“Move,” Archie growls.

“You know what happened last night?” Terry asks, ignoring his father. He doesn’t bother waiting for Archie to gain interest. “That piece of fucking shit you call a son-in-law shook my god damn kid,” Terry said, deadpan. “Mickey’s got fucking shaken syndrome. Hospital has to keep him. They’re sending suits in here to check for safety and shit!” he yells.

Archie looks Terry over. He puffs his cigar some more. Around the smoke he shuts one eyes and asks, “What the hell you doing with that?” and nods at the gun.

“Leo’s a fucking dead man,” Terry says.

Humming in the back of his throat, Archie pops up the leg of his recliner. “He gonna live?” he asks.

“Leo?” Terry asks, cocking a brow.

“Your son, moron,” Archie growls.

Terry nods. “Doctors say the damage wasn’t that bad,” he says, then adds, “Might be prone to seizures. Won’t hear as well.”


	3. Sweet Dreams

_Terry shook him._

_Not for long, just long enough to shut him up. The baby had been crying non-stop for two hours. Archie had changed his diaper. Mim had gave him some formula and a bit of Rum on his gums. Terry’s sister rocked the little shit. But Mickey was still crying and showed zero signs of stopping. He had gas, was Mim’s diagnosis. Sent Terry out to grab some medicine from the Quicky Stop down on fifth. But the owner was chuck out of the stuff. Terry hadn’t bothered looking else where. He had better shit to deal with and figured his family could figure Mickey out._

_When he got back from his rendezvous with Irene, blitzed out, Colin in tow because it was his turn this weekend, Terry found that his family had in fact not handled anything. They were all gone by six the next morning. Mickey, laying exactly where Terry left him, was red faced and tensed up into a tight ball. Tiny fists over his eyes, flimsy nails scratching up the skin around his cheeks. Still wailing. He hadn’t meant to shake his baby. He’d meant to burp him. Instead, the high pitched cry made Terry’s ear ring and, in a fit of anger and stress, he held Mickey a foot away from his body and shook. Colin watched, baby blue, toddler eyes wide as saucers._

_“Hush!” Terry barked, abruptly stopping his assault on the baby._

_Mickey cried louder, but only for a second. Slowly came the silence. And Terry laid him back in the filthy, home crafted crib. Made up of bits of leftover woods (who knew what kind) that Archie used to build the hooch house out back._

_-_

Terry wakes with a start. Sits up on the sofa and rubs his prematurely aging face. He wonders if his dream was memories or only a nightmare. Maybe some combination of both. He can’t really recall being the one to fuck his son up. But hell, maybe he was. Too late to take back the wrath Terry had evoked against Leo in false accusation. Blonde haired, blued eyed corpse buried six feet into an embankment just outside the city. Terry sighs and looks over at the crib.

Rande brought Mickey home just before Terry crashed out. The baby is awake right now and watching Terry through the wooden rails. He’s quiet. Maybe he will always be quiet now. Maybe he’ll listen better.

Terry thinks maybe what he’s done isn’t so bad.

 


End file.
